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low. “Now.”
I grabbed my Winchester and walked to the porch edge. The glint came again. A silhouette. A rider, watching us.
He turned and disappeared. He was a scout, going back to report.
“Is it him?” Martha asked, terrified.
“It was a scout. Hastings knows where you are.”
“We have to run—”
“No,” I said firmly. “Let him try.”
“I can’t let you destroy your continue reading …
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